


Commuting

by Lynchy8



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bahorel and Courfeyrac appear very briefly, Character Death, Enjolras is there later, Friendship, Gen, Modern AU, Other, a little bit of language, canon references, the last chapter will be very very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-10
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:58:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynchy8/pseuds/Lynchy8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I knew him for 25 minutes a day, three days a week for six months"</p><p>Commuting; it’s usually the same every day.<br/>Then one day this guy got on my train to work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Strangers on a Train

Commuting; it’s usually the same every day.

The alarm goes off and then it’s a rushed shower, a rushed breakfast and finally a rushed march to the station for the train. We all look straight ahead, plugged in, tuned out pretending that it isn’t that bad really.

But it is that bad really. I graduated from uni nearly three years ago. My generation was sold on the idea that having a degree would give us the career of our dreams. Instead it left us unemployed and with debt we never have a hope of being free from in the middle of the worst recession this country has ever seen. I gratefully hurled myself into the first job I could get, telling myself it was just a stop-gap, a metaphorical platform to the rest of my life. Now, every day I stand on this all-too real platform with my music turned to full volume, drowning out reality. 

It was the same every day, until one day six months ago when it was different.  
Six months ago, my alarm woke me as usual. I have no idea if it was a cereal day or toast day, whether I managed to find a pair of matching black socks or even if I bothered trying to straighten my hair. What I do remember is the horrible rising sensation of panic when I reached into my coat pocket and found it empty. No earphones. I’m fairly certain I swore, before pointlessly searching my other pocket and then groping into the corners of my bag. I knew it was futile because by then I had already remembered the old lady in the supermarket the day before who had asked me a question. I had removed my earphones and they had been hastily shoved into a carrier bag rather than into their usual home in my coat pocket. That carrier bag was still in my flat. Fuck. I now had a whole twenty-five minutes of reality to look forward to. 

The train scooted into the station and I tucked myself into a seat next to a window hoping that people-watching might help to pass the time. The rest of the carriage filled with bored zombies and the doors sighed as they started to close. Then, right at the last second, a rucksack appeared between them, forcing them back apart. A body followed the rucksack. It was tall, well built, male, with a mop of black curls. He flung himself down in the empty seat beside me and started to rifle through his bag, presumably to check that the contents were not too badly damaged by the hungry doors.

At first I was content to watch other people’s back gardens whirl past my window but after a few minutes I became aware of a scratching sound and movement from my neighbour. Turning my head slightly to the right, I could see that he had a sketch book balanced precariously on his crossed knee and the sound was coming from the pencil he was using to shade. From the pencil my eyes travelled to his fingers and _oh my god_ those hands. There was magic to be found in those fingers. They were smudged with graphite, but underneath there was a tint of yellow from tobacco. The nails were bitten to the quick and I could see bumps and callouses from years of holding pencils and, judging by the blob of red on his thumb, paintbrushes too. 

I managed to tear my gaze away from the hands to the paper. He was sketching a man; a man with a sharp jaw, sharp nose, arms raised in a compelling pose as if preaching from a pulpit. It was a powerful image and before I could remember that I was on a train and that my opinion might not necessarily be welcome I heard my voice say “that’s really good”. 

The guy didn’t even pause but continued to add shadow to his sketch. I wondered if he had heard me, or whether he was choosing to ignore me. After an awkward moment I was ready to turn my attention back to the window when he put down his pencil and looked up at me through his curls. His eyes were flashed with amusement, his gaze piercing.

“You see, I don’t know what you want me to do with that.” He said, his voice gravelly and mocking but not cruel. My own voice, far too forward a moment ago, found itself shrinking back down into my throat. “I mean, there are really only two responses to such a statement. The first would be that I know how good it is. I am aware of my ability with a pencil. But that would be ‘arrogant’” His fingers tore the air to provide the inferred speech marks while he continued. 

“The second, the more socially acceptable response, would be to say ‘really?’ as if I don’t know how good I am and that I require your validation of my work in order to continue with it. That would be ‘insincere’” His eyes were sparkling and it took a moment for my brain to catch up and realise that he was waiting for a response. 

“It’s a compliment,” I said. “Take it and run”. 

This was obviously acceptable because he grinned at me, a genuine quirk of his lips that made his eyes crinkle and he turned back to his work. “You’re wrong, anyway” he continued softly. “Technically it is good, but the product is anything but. It doesn’t do the original any justice what so ever.” He punctuated the last three words with meaningful strokes of his pencil. His focus was back on the page and did not invite any further discussion. The train slowed into a station. Some people got off, more people got on. The world kept moving around us as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

“Who is it?” Oh god, please someone just cut my tongue out already.

“It’s Apollo”. Well, obviously. I looked back at the man on the page. The artist worked on the shirt sleeves, shading the creases by the elbows.

“Well, having not met any greek gods recently…”

“Take my word for it, this is NOT what he looks like” he interrupted. ”He continues to evade my efforts to capture him on paper” the guy sighed wistfully, pulling his hand through his hair in frustration.

“One day, maybe one day, I will triumph”.

Not knowing what to say, I let him go back to his sketch in peace and spent the final seven minutes of the journey staring out the window. He was out of his seat and in the queue for the door before the train rolled to a stop. By the time I reached the platform he was lost in the crowd.


	2. Rite of Spring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We meet again, my knowledge of greek mythology is woefully inadequate and he ends up giving me homework.

It had been two weeks since the forgotten-earphone debacle. It was entirely possible that I had been keeping my eyes peeled for tall people with black curly hair but so far I had been left disappointed. 

Today, in a rather uncharacteristic move, the sun had decided to make an appearance and the stomp to the station was made slightly more bearable by the absence of driving rain. I paused as I drew closer to the station in order to persuade my travel card to leave the confines of my wallet when I saw him. He was leaning against the wall, smoking. He was resting on his left leg while his right foot was set against the wall and his head was thrown back, exhaling towards the sky, watching birds soar against the heavens. For the briefest of moments I was struck by the sensation that it was as if he was waiting for me, a ridiculous notion that I shook from my mind as I returned my attentions back to my bag and my travel card.

Suddenly he looked down, lowering his gaze and levelled it at me. After a moment he face broke into a smile. His fingers, still clutching his cigarette, rose in a mock salute to his forehead.

“Ah ha, I know you! It is the fair Persephone herself come to be swept towards Hades!” 

“I… what?” I felt my face frown although more at my own ridiculous loss of coherence rather than his greeting.

“Zeus and Demeter’s fair daughter…” he began and I felt a snap of irritation.  
“I know who she is” I tried, I promise I really tried not to sound rude, “but why her?” His gaze was steady and he considered his response.

Finally, he abandoned his cigarette and crushed it into the tarmac with his heel before he leant forward towards me with a slightly conspiratorial air.  
“It’s a compliment” he said, “take it and run”.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“So you have a Greek fixation.”  
The train rumbled to life as we settled into a pair of seats towards the back of the carriage. The conversation outside had meant we had very nearly missed it. A mad dash, a struggle with the barriers and a final lunge for the doors found us laughing in the middle carriage, much to the disgust of our fellow commuters. 

He had a brilliant laugh. It started as a bark of mirth, his head thrown back and the sound rumbling from his chest, before being replaced by a quick chuckle.

“There is a lot to be said for the greek mythologies.” The sketch book was back. Today’s piece was different. Apollo was behind a table of papers, hands pressed against the surface, shoulders set firm and eyes blazing. Leaving Apollo on the page, I looked up to take a moment to study the face of the artist. He wasn’t what you would call conventionally handsome. It was an impossible face, compelling to look at with a forehead creased in concentration. The brown eyes, glazed only moments before, were now pin-point focused, framed with purple shadows that suggested a pressing need for natural sleep. 

“Their gods are bad tempered, vengeful and extraordinarily jealous” he continued, adding detail to Apollo’s waist coat. “They are not above playing games with their favoured mortals. It is a shame that I am ignorant, otherwise I would quote to you a mass of things.” I raised my eyebrows; ignorant? I didn’t believe that for a moment. 

“I’ve never read anything” I admitted, somewhat guiltily, “I think we did the Minotaur at primary school. And I remember Icarus. Oh, and I love ‘Jason and the Argonauts’ with the Harryhausen skeletons. Those were scary as hell” I clutched at the vaguest straws of my memories, painfully aware of the inadequacy of my knowledge. I drew my e-reader out of my bag, despite the fact that there was nothing on it older than the 19th century; lots of Austen, Bronte, Dickens, some Joyce, Wilde, Woolf and Laurence and (rather optimistically) the collected works of Dostoyevsky.

He plucked the reader out of my hands and dextrous fingers scrolled through my downloads. With a chuckle, he logged onto the train’s wifi and before I had a chance to object he started selecting texts for download.

“Be easy” he said, in response to my strangled cough as I reached to take it back “they’re all free downloads. On my Apollo, I have not spent a penny.” I flicked through the list. Virgil’s Aeneid, Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Homer’s Iliad.  
“Start with those,” he said “and let me know how you get on”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike our narrator I actually do enjoy Greek literature, having studied Latin & Classics in school. 
> 
> Now the first two chapters are out the way I can finally focus on the next bit :)


	3. Even Geniuses Can Have An Off Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “As someone who has been on the receiving end of that sort of look more times than I care to remember, please just… don’t hold a grudge.” 
> 
> We're having a bad day but coffee and ranting makes it better.

Commuting; it’s a little bit different each day.

Sometimes he is outside, smoking. Sometimes he’s already on the platform waiting impatiently. Mostly he’s hurling himself through the closing doors at the last possible minute. Once he chased the train down the platform waving at me wildly through the window.

Commuting has improved dramatically in the last three weeks. He’s usually on my train on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays. I’ll save him a seat and he’ll draw while I read. It’s a comfortable friendship that makes those 25minutes so much more pleasant than they were before.

But this particular day was Wednesday and a bloody awful day at that. The server had gone down over night and IT was taking their sweet time bringing it back on line. In the meantime, seven different people had decided it was my personal fault that I wasn’t able to assist them in whatever query it was and that the quickest way to bring the system back on line was to shout at the top of their lungs. At me.

On top of all that I hadn’t had the best night’s sleep. Enough was enough. Lunchtime came and I swung out of the building and stomped off down the road feeling slightly more than homicidal. Three streets away the hum of the city was seeping under my skin and my heart rate began to slow as I left that ridiculous office behind. Turning down two more lanes my feet took themselves towards a café I favour for occasions such as these. The gingerbread latte is to die for but me being terminally broke meant that I wasn't able to visit as often as I would like. This day, economics could go fuck itself. I fully intended to have a large full fat latte with cream and I was definitely going to have a blueberry muffin too.

The bell above the door was far too cheerful for my liking, reigniting my irritation. Mercifully there was only one other person in the queue. While waiting to be served I cast a glance round the café looking for a likely table and _oh you are kidding me_. Taking up a whole corner, paper everywhere, was a familiar mop of curls.

“Mind if I sit here?”

His head shot up in surprise, but a second later he flashed that smile. “Persephone! Hang on," confusion clouded his expression "I'm not actually waiting for a train right now..."

“Very funny” I slid down in the seat opposite him while he scrambled to move some of his, well… “Hang on, _that’s_ not Apollo”. I had only ever seen the sketch book with page after page of the same man in a variety of different settings. The top most piece on the table, being worked on with chalks, was a landscape. I shrugged my jacket off, trying to see what else there was.

“This is course work” he explained.

“You’re a student?” That was so not fair, and it was hard to keep the bitterness out of my tone. He chuckled and took a sip from his coffee.   
“Mature student, technically. I took a gap year or two. And I may or may not have failed my second year.” He didn’t seem that bothered about it. I would have been mortified and my parents would have absolutely murdered me if I had needed to repeat a year. But he was just so… not bothered. The opposite of bothered. 

“Hmph, wish I was,” I grumbled. The day I was having, I was all too happy to indulge in my favourite form of self-torture; the ‘what-could-have-been’ rant. If I had my way I would live in a library, up to my eyeballs in books reading everything ever written until I resembled Yellow Submarine’s Nowhere Man (“He’s so smart he doesn’t even remember what he knows”) .

Instead I was sweating away in a thankless job for a pittance, not using any of my knowledge and some days I swear I could actually feel my brain cells screaming with frustration. “You’re supposed to work to live, not live to work!”

He nodded in serious agreement. “One breaks one’s neck in living.” He took another gulp of coffee but did not elaborate further. Then he sighed as if coming to some sort of decision. “If you hate your job that much, just quit.”

A hundred counter arguments fluttered through my brain. Most of them started with things like bills, rent, the mortgage deposit I was desperate to aspire to. But I didn’t care about any of those things. For a moment I could see it. I could see myself marching back to work, telling my boss exactly what they could do with their oh-so-important report they wanted by the end of this week and then disappearing off into the sunset in a blaze of nihilistic glory. God, it was tempting. 

“I can’t. I have bills to pay.” He snorted in derision, clearly unimpressed with my suburban and responsible answer.   
“I’m an historian. I’m wasted in an office.” I whispered to my latte, feeling extraordinarily sorry for myself.

However, I was not permitted to continue with my own personal pity party, as my mutterings were met with a grunt of impatience from my table mate. “History is nothing but wearisome repetition. One century is the plagiarist of the other”.

This was too much! Everything I believed in screamed within me. History was – IS - entirely relevant. Only through its study and context could we hope to understand our present. However, I could feel this man’s cynicism clawing into my skin. Already I could hear his arguments in my head; after all, what use was history in the real world? How did Heloise and Abelard, Christine de Pizan and the events within the Anglo Saxon chronicle translate against the insipid celebrity culture of OK magazine? How did my knowledge of the crusades, the Dead Sea Scrolls and medieval burial practise help me in 21st century London? Fear of the Other was just as prevalent now as it was 2000 years ago. Each century boasted a host of wars built on bigotry, religious hatred and greed. Genocide soaked the earth in blood and each time there was a call from the people of “never again” only to be followed by another, even worse atrocity, sometimes only decades later. Knowledge may be power, but in this case it was also a rope with which to hang ourselves.

Before I could pull myself from my depression and formulate what would have been a clear and excellent argument about why he was wrong, my phone rang.

A whole rift of emotions shot through me, starting with irritation, progressing rapidly through frustration and finally settling on a sad anger laced with disappointment. I didn’t need to wrestle the offending ringing article from my pocket to know who was calling. I glared down at the caller ID, as if the idiot could feel the full force of my displeasure through the ether. I ignored the call and shoved my phone into my bag. Another snort from across the table dragged me from my reverie.

“Forgive them”.

The glare transferred from my phone to him.   
“Whatever it was they did, forgive them.” He made it sound so easy.   
I opened my mouth to say something but he put his chalk down and looked right at me with an unreadable expression in those soft brown eyes. Whatever aggressive expletive I was about to spit got lost around my larynx so I settled for more glaring, but with slightly reduced violence. He was undaunted, a quirk of the lips into a smile that was ever so slightly sad, and his eyes returned to his work. 

“But, he hasn’t even apologised!” I sputtered, my voice returning at last, along with my indignation.   
Oh, but he found this hilarious. That bark of laughter echoed in my ears.

“With all due respect, Persephone, you did not answer your phone.” His voice was so soft, so dangerous. The bastard. He looked back up at me and oh, that smile. That sad, sad smile just broke my heart.

“As someone who has been on the receiving end of that sort of look more times than I care to remember, please just… don’t hold a grudge.”

“Apollo?” It was a guess, but he hummed an assent, eyes snapping back to his course work.

This was new. He didn’t like to talk about Apollo on the train. Apart from the fact that he drew this mystical man over and over, he was never persuaded to elaborate any further on who Apollo was or who he might be to him. 

“You like him” I ventured. He frowned but made no further sound or movement.

“I mean _like_ him” I continued. He sighed and kept his eyes on his work but I noticed his movements had become more focused, more deliberate on the page. “Sooooo, what, he’s straight?” The chalk in his hand snapped.

“Funnily enough, we have never had that conversation.” The angry bite in his tone was clear. This was dangerous territory. He did not want to talk about it. There was a huge neon sign screaming his reluctance to discuss this in this café with me. However tempting it was to ignore that sign I couldn’t in good conscience. I whispered a small apology and a shake of those curls showed that he’d heard me. There followed a distinctly awkward pause. 

“He came home drunk,” I said, steering us back to safety, wanting him to make a happier noise or quirk that smile at me. He didn’t move, remained still in his seat, still staring at the page. “It was 2am. Someone decided to go out on the lash last night with his work mates and thought that banging on my door in the middle of the night when he KNEW I had work the next day…” He was shaking his head but he was smiling. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

Suddenly I was engulfed in wave of exhaustion. I massaged my poor dry eyes with my hands trying to rub some sense in to them. Maybe answering my lousy boyfriend’s call was something I could stretch to after all. When the café came back into focus, he was packing up his stuff. I suddenly realised how long we had been sitting there and I would need to be getting a shift on if I wanted to get back on time.

He shuffled over in his seat to move past me and make his exit. Before I could scoot out of his way he took my shoulder in his hand and looked steadily at me. “Don’t quit, Persephone” he said, as if staring into my soul. His grasp was gentle but firm and his skin gave off a scent of soap, paint, tobacco and something vaguely alcoholic. “I’ll see you tomorrow” and he sloped off out of the café and away down the street. Looking at the time on my phone I had 15minutes left of my lunch break. Taking a deep breath, I selected the option to return that last missed call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is taken from Wile E Coyote.  
> Yellow Submarine is a brilliant film, even if a terrific amount of drugs were consumed in its construction.  
> R's opinion on history is entirely his own, however sad that makes me.


	4. Of snow days and roses with other names

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick interlude of bad weather

The last few weeks of March sent the national obsession with the weather into freefall. Total panic set in as it became increasingly clear that the dreaded “S” word was pending. England is not equipped to cope with Weather and snow was the very worst kind.

The papers predicted a white apocalypse and apparently this was my fault. 

“I have to say, you’re doing a rubbish job, Persephone”  
I watched him produce a hip flask with shaking fingers from his rucksack, carefully unscrew the cap and top up his black coffee. Catching my glance, he motioned with the flask towards my own cup. It was tempting for all of 30 seconds before I remembered that it was not yet 8am. He shrugged his shoulders and stowed it back in his bag.

“You know I’m not actually the bringer of spring, right?” I shivered, trying to bleed as much warmth into my hands as possible.

Our train was late. Work had made it clear that nothing short of death would exempt us and we were expected to be in work day, snow or no snow. I thought wistfully of my duvet, of lying in bed and watching the snow fall from the warmth of my bed. Instead, I shuffled my numb feet upon the platform. Bringer of Spring, indeed! If that was in my power it would be a steady 23 degrees and never rain again.  
   
“What should I call you, anyway?” I asked, awkwardly.  
Honestly, we’d been chatting for three months and only now it occurred to me to ask his name? He evidently found this hilarious, his hot laughter rising in plumes in the cold air.

“You may call me R, fair Persephone”  
“Argh?”  
“R,” he corrected, pulling out his sketch book and signing the most recent effort with a flourish before tearing it out and presenting it to me with a mock bow.  
I looked at the drawing. Apollo was standing, leaning against a wall, his arms folded and a merciless frown upon his face. I folded the sketch carefully and tucked it into my wallet.

Looking up, I could see he was flicking through the rest of the pad, before stuffing it back into his bag, and taking another sip of coffee. His lovely hands were almost blue and I wondered why on earth he wasn’t wearing gloves.

“I know why I’m here” I said, clearing my throat, “HR need a national emergency to be declared before I get a snow day, but how come you’re out in this god-awful weather?”  
“I love snow” he said simply, his face suddenly looking brighter and younger. “Everything is better in the snow. All the ugliness is covered. It makes my footsteps silent and yet physically marks my travels along the road.” His usual cynical air was markedly absent while he spoke. “Plus, my tutor said if I missed one more seminar he’d fail me”. Ah, incentive. One failed year was obviously this artist’s limit.

 _Ladies and Gentlemen we apologise for the delay_ …

“This is ridiculous” I said to no one in particular. Ridiculous that it was snowing in March, ridiculous that I wasn’t safe in bed. Ridiculous that work wanted me to negotiate a transport network that didn’t do weather.

R’s phone beeped. He glanced at his cracked screen and a huge grin plastered itself across his face. “Seminar cancelled” he crowed. Oh, that was definitely not fair. He picked up his bag and gave me a cheery wave.  
“See you later, Persephone.” And he was off down the platform. A few feet from the exit he turned and called out to me. “Actually I’ve changed my mind. Hold off spring for as long as you like – the more snow days the better!” He did his bow again before spinning on his heel and out of the station through the barriers. Urgh.

Over an hour later, in an academy award winning impression of Scott of the Antarctic, I staggered into the office. Only three other people had made it. After procuring a coffee from the staffroom, I unfolded the drawing R had given me and pinned it to the board next to my monitor. My eye fell on his signature and I realised he hadn’t returned my question. Apparently my goddess pseudonym was more than adequate for his purpose. I spent a good portion of the day googling greek gods beginning with R and came up blank. I decided that, rather than let it drive me mad, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of asking him to explain it so let him keep his little joke to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> March 2013 was the coldest March since 1962.  
> I don't know where spring was hiding but she took her sweet time about it.
> 
> R in a good mood can't last, but this was too nice a moment to pass over.


	5. Must I Now Begin To Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Apollo is a lot of things. He is hope, the light, the centre of the turning world around which I am doomed to orbit for all eternity. But he is not my friend.” 
> 
> The sun has finally come out, but not everyone is happy
> 
> or  
> R has been playing Dominoes

April had just made its important transition to May. With lighter mornings I found myself with more energy. For some unfathomable reason my morning tasks took less time in spring than they did in winter, which meant more often than not that I was slightly early for my train. My feet carried me towards the station with less misery than before. The warmth of the sun was infectious.

In the four months since we had started this strange friendship, I had surmised that he was something of a fatalist prone to extreme mood swings accompanied by a whole host of issues with his self-esteem and a taste for alcohol before 11am. Some days his eyes flashed and his smiles came easily. These were usually Thursdays. Mondays were harder. He was usually hung over, more sad than grumpy but decidedly uncommunicative. Tuesdays depended on how badly Monday went.  
Underneath his apparently careless facade was a brilliantly astute mind, extraordinarily talented fingers and a wicked sense of humour.

This Monday morning he looked rough as hell.  
As I made it to the platform I spotted him, apparently asleep, on a bench. His arms were folded protectively around himself and his head rested on his chest. As I drew close I could see the purple shadows around his eyes, the pinched dehydrated skin. If I had to guess I’d say he had slept outside the night before. Now that I was standing beside him I could detect the scent of stale beer rather than the usual soap and tobacco. Something had happened. Something bad.

Quickly making a decision, I purchased a large black coffee from the little shop. I bumped his shoulder gently and he startled awake, confusion apparent on his tired face.  
“Here,” I whispered gently, proffering the cup of caffeine. He took it with a sad huff of a sigh and knocked it back like it was something else.

“R?”  
“Not in the mood today” his voice was low and tired. Now that his eyes were open I could see they were bloodshot and swimming, as though he had only stopped crying thirty minutes ago.  
Our train arrived at that point and we hopped on and found our usual place. R took the window seat, arms back round his sides as though holding himself together, eyes staring out the window.

I took out my e reader and flicked to Homer. Diomedes and Odysseus had decided to go on a killing spree. Some poor sod had just had his head cut off and now the Thracians looked like they were in line for a good kicking. The Ancient Greeks were certainly a blood thirsty lot.

Out of the corner of my eye I could see him trying to be subtle about reading over my shoulder.

“Rhesus Eionides just came a cropper” I said casually, as if it was totally normal to murder a king in his sleep. He made no sign that he’d heard me but neither did he move away or turn back to the window.  
“Also, Agamemnon is a total arse.” He was unsuccessful in disguising his barked laughter as a cough. Feeling more confident I turned to him fully, “Please tell me he suffers a suitably violent end!”  
“Spoilers,” he muttered, but the small smile warmed my heart.

I clicked the e reader off.  
“Want to talk about it?”  
“No.”  
Fair enough. I didn’t press any further. Sometimes it’s like this. All I can do is offer an impartial or sympathetic ear. After a beat, he sighed in his seat and tugged his hands through his curls.

“I fucked up. Like, royally fucked up.”  
I waited, keeping my face neutral. For his part, he looked totally broken hearted. His red eyes swam, trying to focus on the cup in front of him.

“I wanted a job. I asked for a job. He gave me a job. And I screwed it up. Like I always do.” His tone was despondent.  
“Apollo?”  
He nodded, totally crushed. “I asked if there was anything I could do to help him. Everyone else had a job, I just wanted to help, to show that I wasn’t completely useless” I couldn’t follow half what he meant. He was talking at high speed, his focus internalised on the memory of the night before. Doubtless it made all too much sense to him.

After a moment he reached for his bag, presumably to remove his sketch book, but his hands were shaking so much the contents of the rucksack quickly emptied themselves over the floor of the carriage. R dived after them cursing wildly. I reached down to help him and came up with a handful of leaflets.  
“What are these?” I asked, twisting them the right way up to read the title “Pemmet too?”

He plucked them out of my hand, the movement more gentle than I expected. He looked at them with a conflicted expression.  
“Permets-Tu” he corrected. “It means, will you or do you permit it. This is what Apollo does. He has this group, this so-sia-tee,” R’s over pronunciation sounded foreign on his tongue, his faced screwed up with distate. “His little gang of friends who single handedly will take on the Sherriff of Nottingham and will rob the rich to feed the poor.” He stared at the leaflet in his hand as though it held a whole bunch of answers to questions he alone had thought to ask.  
“Will we permit the gradual erosion of our freedoms and human rights under the cloak of “keeping us safe” – things like Stop and Search and the terrorism laws. He's pro-choice and campaigns for Equal Marriage, that sort of thing.”  
“So, he’s an activist”  
“Something like that” his smile was bitter, and he continued to stare at the leaflet. “One of those hideous idealists who believes his own bullshit.” The cynicism was back but his heart wasn’t in it. I had the overwhelming sensation that if it anyone else was to state these negative views of his Apollo, R might just fight them to the death defending him.

“He wanted me to hand them out.” He whispered. He shoved the leaflets back in his bag, the spell broken. “Needless to say I didn’t. I’m just freaking useless…” and he trailed off, covering his face with those beautiful hands.

“You are not useless” I said sternly. We’d been through this at least once before. Sometimes it felt like I knew two different people on this train. One guy was relaxed and secure in his skin. He saw the hopelessness of it all and he relished it. He was happy to watch the other ants scurry about the ant hill in their pointless endeavours while he watched on with amusement. Then there was the other guy, the one on the train right now, sighing with despair, desperate to join his fellow ants but held back by his belief in futility and fear of rejection.

I shuffled up next to him on the seat and began to rub gentle circles into his back. His shoulders were strong under his shirt. R was silent but still, his whole body tense.  
“Listen to me, R” I whispered. He didn’t move, so I moved my right hand from his back to his chin. He moved his hands from his face and looked at me with ancient eyes.  
“If he is your friend he will forgive you.”  
He shook his head.  
“Apollo is a lot of things. He is hope, the light, the centre of the turning world around which I am doomed to orbit for all eternity. But he is not my friend.” He seemed so certain. His quiet voice grew softer and he leant towards me, as if to confide a terrible secret.  
“I’m not even sure he likes me.” He whispered. I squeezed his shoulders.  
If Apollo had appeared on that train right now he would have had a piece of my mind and no mistake, god or no god. It was a man who had made my friend so sad and that made me so angry. 

“Well, look” I said at last, tone light, “I’ll have one. And I’ll take one for the Idiot too” He turned to look at me, eyes full of doubt.  
“Now you can tell that Apollo of yours that you handed some out on the train. Ok?” I didn’t expect the hug when it came, but it was over far too quickly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really as anti-Enjolras as our narrator. The thing is, she doesn't know the history between these two, nor that E was doubtful about R's abilities but gave him the chance anyway. Poor old R just self-sabotaged himself.  
> Hopefully her opinion will equal itself out in future chapters.
> 
> By the way, she's reached Chaper X of Homer's Iliad. Diomedes & Odysseus do seem to rather enjoy casual slaughter. And Agamemnon is definitely an arse.
> 
> Finally, I had to include Permets-Tu in there somewhere.


	6. Anger Be Now Your Song, Immortal One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The one making all the noise on the stage was, without doubt, Apollo."

I am conflicted about Saturdays. Ostensibly they should be a welcome relief from the mercy of the alarm clock, however my body hates me that much that I’ll be awake at 7am regardless. 

The day was not to be too much of a waste, however, as the Idiot had an appointment with his bank manager. They needed to have an Important Economical Discussion with him so I found myself wondering around town at something of a loose end. 

In the square ahead I could hear the sound of drums and whistles. There was a crowd of people making a racket and I was drawn towards it like a moth to flame. Other Saturday shoppers hurried past, uninterested in the noise and rumpus. Some stopped to take the leaflets being passed out but most put their heads down and marched past, too caught up in their own troubles.

As I drew closer I recognised the name of the group on the banner. This was Permets-Tu, which meant….  
The one making all the noise on the stage was, without doubt, Apollo. He was younger than I expected, probably younger than me. Neither man nor youth, he was a blazing ball of passion and anger with a clear steady voice, fierce eyes and an unearthly presence that forced you to pay attention. I suddenly understood why R found him so difficult to capture on paper. He was so fluid, always moving. His arms gesticulated and his eyes roved over the crowd, never resting for a moment for fear of missing anyone out. A still representation could not do him justice. He was sincerity and belief personified.

It took me a few moments to focus on the subject of his speech. Tearing my eyes from him, I forced my ears to pay attention to the words rather than the sound of Apollo’s voice and managed to deduce that he was in full flow about Equal Marriage. 

Now that my gaze was free to roam, I searched the crowd. People were hanging off his every word, cheering their support at suitable pauses in the rhetoric. The atmosphere was positive, a warm buzz in the air. I smiled, in spite of myself.

“I didn’t think this was your scene.”  
R appeared suddenly behind me. He looked tired, but I was pleased to see the positivity in his eyes. In the twelve days since he had told me about Apollo’s extra-curricular activities, he had been on something of a rollercoaster. He had remained crippled by doubt for the remainder of that week before swaying violently to euphoric productivity, both emotions equally as unhealthy as the other in my opinion. Finally, on the Thursday when I had last seen him his mood had been more settled, more relaxed.

Today his face was flushed and his skin held a sheen of sweat. Instead of his usual jeans and t-shirt he was wearing joggers.  
“Just come from the gym” he answered the question I hadn’t asked, pulling his fingers through his wild hair. He jerked his head behind him to indicate a large man in a loud shirt. “Been boxing with Bahorel.” I nodded.

“I’m waiting for the Idiot.” I said simply. He grinned at me.  
“Although, this isn’t my first protest.”  
His eyebrow rose, Roger Moore style. It was my turn to chuckle, allowing the warmth of memories to crowd my mind.  
“I was in Parliament Square on 20th March 2003.”  
“Really?” I tried not to be offended by the incredulous tone.  
“Yeah, I was 15. We bunked off school for the day and got the train into the city. The atmosphere was sort of like this. It was angry but positive. I remember there was a bloke in a tree setting fire to a Union Flag. We really thought we could make a difference.” I huffed a sigh. “I can’t believe that was 10 years ago.” I kept my eyes on the stage, but I wasn’t listening to Apollo, far too lost in my own thoughts. 

“I was so young," I was practically whispering, "full of hope and potential. I had dreams and had just got with my girlfriend and we were totally unstoppable…” I was just muttering to myself now, feeling slightly numb at not having thought about Lilly or any of it in a long time. R suddenly squeezed my hand, bringing me back to the present. He looked at me like he knew my soul only too well.

“Of course,” I broke the moment with a forced laugh “It didn’t make the blindest bit of difference, and Mum nearly murdered me when I got home.” I didn’t tell him about the photo of Lilly and I that appeared in the Evening Standard the following day. He rolled his eyes at me as if to say “Parents!” I didn’t want to think about this anymore.

“So that’s Apollo” I inclined my head in the direction of the vocal blonde on his soapbox. R smiled a genuine warm smile that transfigured his impossible face into something whole, something beautiful.  
“I can see why you like him” I said, grudgingly. He nodded vigorously.  
“He doesn’t know I’m here” he muttered. Inside I groaned.  
“Not another fight...”  
“A difference of opinion” he said dismissively. At least he seemed to be taking this one quite well.

Suddenly Apollo was jumping off the stage into the cheering crowd, his slot obviously finished. He was replaced by another student who, moments before, had been chatting to Bahorel. He began in earnest about the national debt and cuts to the police, education and the NHS. He was waving a large piece of paper around as he shouted statistics regarding the £36.1m “allowance” for the monarchy at the expense of the tax payer. The growl of the crowd was almost pantomime in response. 

I caught the moment when Apollo spotted R in the crowd, watching as his lips twitched and his head moved almost imperceptibly. I’m sure it was meant to be a neutral expression, however, it didn’t seem to me to be the actions of a man who “didn’t like” the guy his gaze was currently fixed upon. I poked R in the side. “I think you’re wanted.” 

R went a bit grey, looking over to where his Apollo stood. The young activist raised his hand to beckon with two fingers. I heard R make a small whimper as I gently shoved him forward, unable to keep my face straight any longer.

I watched as he put a hand on R’s shoulder, drawing him close to whisper something in his ear, to be heard above the shouts of the crowd. It was a familiar, intimate gesture. Suddenly blonde curls were mixing with black. R’s eyes closed as he focused on the voice in his ear. Then he pulled away after a few moments and I saw him nodding. At that moment I would have given anything to be privy to that conversation.

Suddenly Apollo shot away from him, leaving R with a confused and bereft expression. A moment later there was a shriek and I realised what it was that had broken that quiet moment. The guy on the stage had just set fire to the paper in his hands. The charter metamorphosed into flame and chaos broke out in the crowd. With perfect timing, my phone vibrated in my pocket indicating that the Idiot had obviously finished in the bank. As the protest broke up and the police moved in to wrestle Apollo and his friend off the stage I could only shrug an apology as R waved at me with a frustrated smile before he turned and disappeared into the melee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the Iliad.
> 
> Of course it's Courfeyrac who has a pechant for burning royal charters. He may well have heard Persephone reminisce about the 2003 Parliament Square protest and thought it was a good idea.
> 
> R, of course, loves his boxing and Bahorel, who loves nothing so much as a quarrel unless it's an uprising (and nothing so much as an uprising unless it's a revoluion) is the perfect gym partner.
> 
> Persephone's memories of 2003 are based on my own, although I am a few years older than her. My student union staged a walk out the day the war was declared. After attending the protest at my university campus I got the train back to London to join the crowds in Parliament Square, to protest and to bear witness. One of my favourite photos from that day is the guy burning the Union Flag in the tree behind the statue of Winston Churchill. I feel that I can look at future generations in the eye for while it might not have changed anything, at least we can say we tried.
> 
> Both of them have quite a bit in common when it comes to hopes and disillusionment. They've both seen too much reality to bother with dreamers and idealists.
> 
> The next chapter is going to be horrific to write so I'm just going to apologise now.


	7. Wherever You May Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What you have to understand is, R would have followed Enjolras to hell, whether he was invited or not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm just going to go ahead and post this because I've been staring and staring at it.  
> CW: major character death

Monday 20th May

“So, did he get arrested or what?”  
R snorted and sipped his coffee. He seemed in a better mood, considering the day of the week.  
“He talked his way out of it, as usual. You know, sometimes I think they should send Apollo out to the West Bank. If anyone could broker peace in the Middle East, it’s him.”

 

Wednesday 22nd May

“How are you getting on with the Idiot?”  
“Hey! Only I’m allowed to call him that.”  
“It’s been, what, six months?”  
“Seven months on the 9th June”  
“Good grief, Persephone, that’s practically married!” I elbowed him playfully.  
“Has he met your parents yet?”  
I nearly choked on my coffee.

 

Thursday 22nd May

“Hey, you ok?” I poked him gently with my foot but he didn’t move. “R?” He shrugged.  
“Tutor didn’t like my last piece. Wants me to redo it before next Friday.”  
“Ok?”  
“No, it’s not Ok, Persephone. In fact, at this point, I would say it was anything but o-fucking-k.” Ouch. Arranging my face into what I hoped was a neutral, unoffended expression, I sat down on the bench next to him.  
“What I meant was, care to elaborate? What didn’t they like about it?” He huffed at me, before jerkily going into his portfolio, wrestling the work from within and purposefully placing it on my lap. Ah, it was one of the Apollo drawings.  
“They said, and I quote ‘you should vary your subject matter’” The outrage in his tone was clear. Mentally I congratulated the tutor for having the balls to criticise Apollo to R’s face. I also wondered if the tutor realised how lucky they were to still have those metaphorical balls intact.

 

Wednesday 29th May

“What are you doing?”  
“Shhh. Drawing” _Oh my god_ , did he just shh me?!  
It was going to be another beastly week, despite the bank holiday. R was twisted in his seat, eyes focused on his work, but it wasn’t his sketchbook that he was working on and if I didn’t know better…  
“Are you drawing me?”  
“Yes, is that a problem?” His tone was clipped and his mouth was set into a line. I thought about it for a moment.  
“No, I guess not. I just… you could just ask. Did you need me to keep still?” He shook his head, his curls bouncing against the window.

 

Thursday 30th May

“I’m thinking of going to Paris”  
R was doing shading in the huge and, quite frankly, astounding sketch that he’d done of me for his final piece of course work. Rather than the whole face, he was focusing on the right hand side, the edge of the paper splitting my face in two.  
“Why?”  
“I’ve always wanted to go. I want to travel and that seems a good place to start. Heloise and Abelard are buried in Paris”  
“So is Jim Morrison.”  
“And Oscar Wilde.”  
He suddenly put his pencil down. “I went in 2011. There was an Edvard Munch exhibition.”  
“The guy who did The Scream?” He cracked his first smile for at least a week.  
“Well yes but that one wasn’t on display. I wanted to see the Green Room series.” I made a note to Google that sometime.  
He surveyed me seriously, slightly nodding his head. “I think you should go. You’d like Paris. I could recommend you a ton of places to go. Places that your average hideous tourist would never think to visit.” He spoke with warmth and a certain amount of rare enthusiasm. Yeah, maybe I would go to Paris.

 

Monday 3rd June

The last time I saw him was the saddest I had ever seen him.  
Mondays had never been his strong point so I wasn’t too worried by his reticence to talk. We got on the train and sat in our spot. The only sign that something was amiss was the absence of a pencil in his hand.  
“How was your weekend?” I ventured, fully expecting a monosyllabic response.  
“I don’t know” he mused. I waited, giving him a moment to put into words whatever it was he was feeling.  
“I went to the pub with a few of the guys last night. We were just drinking and chatting. And then.” He sighed, his breath let out in a long, slow demonstration of disaffection. In contrast my own breath was held in trepidation.  
“And then?”  
“And then Apollo decided to send out a text to everyone. Everyone except me.”  
I could imagine the scene; a group of people all round a table, the simultaneous singing and ringing of various different text tones, everyone reaching for their phones at the same time. How horribly obvious it would have been when R didn’t move. When I looked at him, his eyes were closed, biting his lower lip.  
“You know, If he had come for me I would have followed him.” He huffed, his eyes, now open, were hard, betraying the hurt within. 

That last day we parted as usual, with a cheery “see you Wednesday” on my part and a distracted shake of the head on his. I wish I’d pressed my hand to his or maybe even braved a hug. I wish I had known it would be our last journey together so that I could have done something more than just walk to work as usual.

 

Tuesday 4th June

We couldn’t be bothered to cook. After beating him at Rock Paper Scissors, I despatched the Idiot to the local chippy while I watched the news headlines. The big news of the day related to The Marriage (Same Sex Couples) Bill for England and Wales which was going through its second reading in the House of Lords. The Ex-Chief Constable, Lord Dear, had his wrecking amendment defeated. I remember the glow I felt inside. Equal Marriage was tangible.

My face contorted as the reporter turned to interview a man from the Marriage Through God Group. He started to express his disappointment with the day’s result, at which point I expressed _my_ disappointment with _him_ by changing the channel. I wondered briefly if even the charms of Apollo could change that bigot’s twisted mind.

 

Wednesday 5th June

He wasn’t on the train.

 

Saturday 8th June

It had all the potential to be a criminally lazy day. The Idiot had stayed over Friday night and somehow we had managed to sleep in until nearly 10am. He was now belting out some greatest hits in my shower. I was padding round the kitchen wondering if I could be bothered to scramble some eggs to go with the toast. The Idiot exited the shower, flopped on the sofa and flicked on the TV.  
“Hey, there’s been a shooting. Last night.”  
“It’s London – there’s always a shooting.” Eggs was definitely too much like hard work. I chucked two slices in the toaster and joined the Idiot – my Idiot – in the lounge.  
“It’s the Marriage Through God Group building.” The news reporter was standing in front of police tape. In the background was a white tent.

_We understand that two men were shot here in an incident last night…_

“You know, I HATE how they enjoy using their serious voices, like they’re so anxious for us to know just how _not ok_ this story is.” I jumped back up as the toaster popped in the other room.

_… the Independent Police Complaints Commission has been called in to investigate the incident and the firearm has been recovered._

“Hey, it was the Police who did the shooting!”

_At the moment the Metropolitan Police will not confirm whether the men were shot by a police officer. Witnesses have spoken of the moment they heard the shot fired…_

I stuck my head back in the lounge.  
“Let’s hope it doesn’t start another riot. Do you want coffee?”

 

Monday 10th June

I looked anxiously up and down the platform. I hadn’t seen R for a week and I felt unsettled. When the train came in I sat down in our seat, looking hopefully at the door, wishing that at any moment he might dive into the carriage. The doors closed and we moved off.

It took me a full minute to realise what I was staring at. The woman opposite me was clutching a newspaper. Every publication was full of the Police shooting that had happened on Friday night and I let out a strangled cry as I recognised the face of Apollo staring back at me from the front page.

I hurtled off the train at the next station and flew into the paper shop, grabbing the nearest one, ignoring the angry protest from the vendor. He became silent when he saw my face; I can’t imagine what I must have looked like to him.

_The two men shot dead at the Marriage Through God Building were members of the student protest group Permets-Tu, it has been revealed. Frances Enjolras, 22, and Richard Grantaire, 24, both died at the scene on Friday. Friends of the dead men have claimed both were unarmed at the time of the shooting, although initial reports indicated it was believed the students may have been armed with hand grenades. The IPCC have confirmed that one shot was fired by an officer as they attempted to arrest the men. No one has been charged over the deaths._

I hastily turned the page to get the rest of the details, but I couldn’t read the print as my eyes filled with sudden and unwelcome tears. My breath caught in my throat as my very worst fears were realised. Among the photos of Apollo was one of an all-too familiar face. It looks like it was taken a few years ago. The hair was shorter and his face was half turned to something to the right of the photographer, but it was definitely him. It was R.

I paid for the paper and got the first train home. Work was satisfied when I called them to advise them I had a migraine. Feeling absolutely nothing, I crawled into bed where I hoped my alarm would wake me from this horrible nightmare to start the day all over again.

 

Tuesday 11th June

Everyone in the office agreed that it should never have happened.  
When I went back to work I was thankful that much of the initial excitement had passed. The most painful part of the day was staring at the drawing next to my monitor. In the end I removed it carefully and tucked it into my drawer.

More details emerged. The so-called “grenades” they had been armed with had turned out to be cans of spray paint. Calls to “drop the weapon” went unheeded, as there were no weapons to drop. The officer, claiming that he believed he was in danger, had fired a shot which passed through R’s neck and hit Apollo in the chest. The girls chatted away, the tabloid reports taken as gospel. The fact that he killed them both at one blow, well… that was just unfortunate. I held my peace, letting the voices of these office gossips and their air-headed views wash over me.

On Wednesday my Idiot knocked on my door, demanding to be let in. For the first time in three days I sobbed freely, letting the full intensity of the situation wash over me. Initially freaked out by my total collapse, he held me for most of the night, whispering to my hair. I clung to him blindly and gratefully. Even if he had never met R, even if he didn’t fully understand why I was so upset about someone I hardly knew, he was there for me without question. He was an anchor keeping my feet on the ground.

On Friday, I took the picture back out of my desk drawer. I suddenly started laughing, which earned me a stern look from my supervisor.  
 _Oh you clever little git_ , I thought. _Grand Aire. And you knew I thought it was something Greek_ …

 

Monday 17th June

It was Monday again. Plugged in and tuned out, I didn’t immediately see the man on the platform staring at me. When I did finally spot him it took me a moment to realise where I had seen him before. Responding to my puzzled look, he strode over to me and I saw he was clutching a piece of paper. I started to take my earphones out and recognised the familiar style of the drawing.

“Is that…?”  
“Are you…?”  
Our voices blended together and I suddenly remembered who he was.  
“You’re R’s friend. I saw you at the rally.”  
“You’re the famous Persephone.” He was holding one of the drawings R had done three weeks ago. I suddenly felt dizzy as the weight of time smashed over me like a wave. He reached out an arm to steady me.  
“Coffee?” I nodded my assent and allowed myself to be led out of the station.

 

Bahorel set a cup down in front of me. He was wearing a hideously bright waistcoat which drew even more attention to his towering height and build. For a moment I thought it slightly inappropriate considering recent events. Then I considered it was actually probably more than appropriate. It also struck me that I had no rights to decide what was appropriate and what wasn’t as I barely knew my late, great commuter buddy. I hadn’t even known his full name until it was printed in a newspaper.

Having settled himself into an uncomfortable chair he cleared his throat.  
“I don’t know if you know…” I felt my shoulders tense and gripped my cup tight.  
“He’s dead” I whispered. “I know.” I could see his hand shake slightly as he set his own drink down on the table.  
“I wanted to… I didn’t want you to just… to be left to wonder.” He was focusing in the wall behind my left shoulder. I took another sip of my coffee, not knowing what to say.  
“He spoke about you a bit, ‘the girl on the train’. Said you were a good listener.” I felt my cheeks colour, trying to imagine R talking to his friends about me. I wondered what his other friends were like. R had mostly talked about his work, his course and his Apollo.  
“We went through some of his stuff at the weekend and I found these sketches and I thought, well, it might be fair if someone could… explain.” The thought of his friends having to go through his stuff made me shiver. I wondered about his family, whether he had any. Maybe his friends were his only family. I suddenly realised just how little I knew about him.

“What was he like? I mean, I knew him for 25 minutes a day, three days a week for six months. I know what he was like first thing in the morning. What was he like in real life?”

Bahorel let out a breath, considering for a moment.  
“Well, I met him when he hustled me at billiards. He was a tremendous drinker. He was argumentative, insanely intelligent…” he tailed off, his face scrunched up with the effort of memory. “He was an amazing friend and he didn’t deserve what happened to him. Neither of them did.”  
Something flared deep within me.  
“He wasn’t supposed to be there, was he?” Bahorel’s head snapped up, eyes meeting mine for the first time. I felt him study my expression and it seemed as though he was angry for a moment, but his tone was even when he replied.  
“What you have to understand is, R would have followed Enjolras to hell, whether he was invited or not. That’s just who he was.” I could only nod.

Bahorel and I parted shaking hands. I was grateful to him for seeking me out.

 

Monday 15th July

_Same-sex marriage in England and Wales is a step closer to becoming law after the House of Lords approved the change. Peers backed a government bill paving the way for gay couples to marry. It is set to become law by the end of the week, with the first weddings in 2014._

The prattle of the news reader provides a soft soundtrack to the hopelessly domestic scene in my flat. My Idiot was in the kitchen making dinner, knocking together one of his infamous pastas. He was here more often than not and while I found that I did not really mind his gentle assimilation into my life, there was still something wrong. As I watched the news I could hear him singing tunelessly as he rattled the pans and I suddenly realised what I was missing.

He set the plates down just as I came to a decision.

“I’m going to quit my job.” The look on his face would be comical if it wasn’t so tragic.  
“Tomorrow, I’m going to hand in my notice.”  
“What brought this on?” I could feel laughter bubbling in my throat. Now that I’d made my decision I suddenly felt light and free.  
“I want to travel. I want to go out and see the world. I have some money saved up. So I’m going to go.”  
“And when you get back?” God, he sounded like my parents. I rolled my eyes. “When I get back, I’m going to go back to Uni. Get that Masters degree I’ve always wanted. Maybe even a PhD. In Ancient Greek! Who knows!”

One thing is certain. After tomorrow I will never get on that train ever, ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first read the brick, it took me two weeks to muster up the courage to keep reading after I finished Orestes Fasting & Pylades Drunk. To me, it was as if I was physically walking away from that war-torn room and leaving them there which I just didn't want to do. That feeling inspired this fic.
> 
> Please forgive me the ultimate sin of forcing first names on these two, but the police reports would not have sounded right without them. The only mitigating circumstance I can offer is that Enjolras being called Frances is an almost Hugo-worthy pun of sorts.
> 
> The anti-equal marriage group, Marriage Through God, is an entirely made up group based loosely on the Coalition for Marriage movement which, embarrassingly enough, exists in this country. The dates regarding the passing of Equal Marriage legislation are, happily, real.
> 
> The title is taken from the song by The Calling.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic.  
> It came into being because sometimes I wish R really would get on my train to work. I bet he would be the best commuter buddy.
> 
> If anyone has any questions please ask :)


End file.
